


he runs to my rescue

by flybluejay



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bathroom Sex, Clothed Sex, Coming in Hand, Creampie, Cyberstalking, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Exhibitionist sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hand Jobs, Height Differences, Height Kink, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mirror Sex, No Pregnancy, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Obsessive Behavior, Past Rape/Non-con, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Fantasy, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Standing Up, Sexual Content, Smut, Stalking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Virginity Kink, Virginity Roleplay, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27883945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybluejay/pseuds/flybluejay
Summary: My underwear is on the ground in a public bathroom and the dick of my stalker is hard between my thighs.I have a rapist, and I have a stalker, and I want them to be the same person, but they’re not.  And so I am crying, fast tears of confusion and grief.After being raped in public, Meghan confronts the man who she thinks is responsible: her IT guy and the stalker who installed hidden cameras all over her apartment ... Jason.
Relationships: Jason Roberts/Meghan Weller, Jason Roberts/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29





	he runs to my rescue

**Author's Note:**

> This is emotionally and sexually messy, so please mind the tags. Everything that takes place in this fic is consensual, but the main character uses her experience of consensual sex to help process a rape that happened to her. The fic is written from her perspective, and she reflects very honestly on what happened to her and how it affects her relationship with Jason. 
> 
> If any of the above is triggering to you, please either do not read, or read with extreme caution. You are responsible for yourself, and I trust you to make the best decision for yourself.
> 
> This fic is based on season 13 x episode 11 of Law & Order: SVU, called [”Theatre Tricks”](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2135661/). You don't need to have seen the episode to understand this fic.
> 
> [Spotify playlist](%E2%80%9C), if you love music like I do 🎵

The microphone scratches against my skin where it’s hidden. I wrap my fingers around my coffee cup, and I’m surprised at how steadily my arms rest on the table — how still my hands are when I brush the hair away from my face. 

I had pleaded with the detectives that they stay outside the café. I felt safe enough in a public place during the day, and I knew I could get a full confession out of Jason if he felt comfortable. All I had to do was figure out how to start the conversation. 

_How do you talk to someone you thought was one kind of person, but who you now know is another?_

* * *

A week ago, I was raped in public. I was performing in my first production, an interactive play about the seven deadly sins where all of the audience members wore masks. The scene I was in was about lust, and in a terrible facsimile of what was actually supposed to happen, one of the masked audience members came up behind me and sexually assaulted me on stage.

I never saw his face or body, just felt his hands and dick pushing me open where I wanted to stay closed. 

No one stepped in because they all thought it was part of the script. 

Detectives were assigned to investigate my case, but as they began to follow the trail, nothing they discovered seemed to make things better. 

When they first told me Jason had installed hidden cameras all around my apartment to watch me, I was still so wounded from the memory of being raped that I cried like being surveilled was the second-worst thing in the world. On top of being violated, the idea of _Jason_ having done all of that to me was completely new and terrifying. 

Jason was my IT guy. He helped me design my website. He answered all my questions about my laptop, but he wasn’t — _couldn’t_ — be my rapist. 

I let so many tears soak my pillow and soak the shirt on my roommate’s shoulder as I tried to think about what it all meant.

Jason had hidden cameras in my apartment. He watched me do intimate things like shower and sleep in a tank top.

I bet he had even watched me touching myself.

My mind wandered without sleep in the early hours of the morning, until I remembered something as I was staring up at my ceiling, something that had happened before all of this took place. 

It was a single moment of connection and pure physical attraction, and I hadn’t given a second thought to it since — until that night, when I was laying in my bed, powerless and abused and at the mercy of the world. 

Jason was with me, had come when I called. I had been trying to turn on my laptop, and couldn’t find the power button. When I pressed the wrong thing, I laughed nervously, apologetically. When he didn’t make a sound, I glanced up to gauge his reaction, and the way he was staring at me … 

That was the first time I noticed how full and thick his lips were as he held them slightly parted when he breathed. 

How thick his neck was and how the veins in it throbbed when he swallowed as he stared down at me. 

That was when I realized that I had power over Jason.

He may have been watching me without my knowledge, but I had him under an even more powerful spell. He felt _compelled_ to watch me, to the point of ignoring all normal boundaries. And in the middle of my weakness and helplessness and fear, an advantage like that was all I needed. 

* * *

At the coffee shop, people buzz around me in a constant rhythm of arrival, conversation, and departure. Meanwhile, I am invisible … except _he_ can see me. 

Somehow, without him even being there, I feel Jason’s eyes on me: shining, artless, too intimate when he doesn’t need to be. 

And then, as though he had seen right into my thoughts, he’s there, opening the door to the cafe.As soon as he sees me, our eyes lock, till he glances around once, as though to see who might be looking at us.

_He doesn’t want anyone watching me except himself._

He looks so ominous because his hood is still on, yet I feel strangely confident as I say, “Jason, you came.”

“Well, you said you needed me.”He says it as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

His voice, the way his eyes are shining as he looks down at me … it feels as though he has lifted a hand and is stroking over my chest. His words reverberate underneath my breastbone.

“I shouldn’t even be here.” His voice is excited. “The cops, they came to my apartment. My mom’s freaking out.”

As he speaks, he takes a seat and pulls the hood off his head. His hair falls out of its hold, the strands laying neatly onto his forehead, and I realize I had never thought about how dark his hair is compared to his skin, or how the beauty marks that are scattered along both sides of his face are all points of contact I can press my fingers to.

_If Jason was the one who raped me, what does it mean that I think he’s handsome?_

_Does that mean I actually wanted it and just didn’t know it?_

I tell him what I somehow know is the truth. 

“I told the cops you’re a good guy. I wanna hear your side.”

I am all too conscious of the microphone rubbing against my skin, all too conscious of the way he speaks like he trusts me. 

My eyes trace his jaw, and my gut turns over as he starts, “Look, I can explain. Those cameras, they’re for security —”

“You spied on me in the shower.” The words fly out of me, strong and accusatory. I sound nothing like myself.

His lips push together in surprise, and my eyes flick down to his mouth. 

_How would his lips look on the rim of my cup?_

My fingers tighten reflexively at the thought.

He is still speechless, but his eyes tremble as he seems to try to take in every movement of my face. It’s taking all my concentration not to burst into tears. It’s confusing because I know that the tears, if I let them go, wouldn’t come from fear or anger. They would be coming from _relief._

All those times I cried when I thought no one in the city would ever know who I was … he had been there for all of them. Jason had seen every part of me: seen every single thing I’d done when I thought I was alone. It was _Jason_ who was there for me when no one else was. 

It was Jason who came every time I called. And it was Jason who was here for me now.

“You look pretty,” he says out of the blue. “You look pretty every single day.” His eyes are genuine, pleading and compassionate. What’s more, there’s something missing behind the shine of them. 

With a blink, I understand: remorse is missing.

 _Shame_ is missing.

He’s not ashamed of what he’s done. 

“Jason, why do you watch me?”

“The cameras are for security.” Again, he replies immediately. He sounds like he’s explaining to me how to turn on my laptop, and not why he keeps a feed of me playing 24/7 on the computer in his room. “There’s a lot of creeps out there, and you’re so,” his hand twitches on the table, “you’re so innocent.”

It dawns on me. “So you want to protect me.”

His whole expression is so helpless and entreating as he looks at me, and one hidden camera after another, the pieces of his obsession slowly click into place. I feel … the way I feel is … 

_Warm._

_Wanted._

_Desired._

Suddenly I notice not only the color of his eyes, but the energy in his face, the way his nose is long and strong, and the way his brow juts forward in a way that feels proud, but could turn menacing in a moment.

“You love me,” I confess aloud to the packed room. The world keeps turning around us, unheeding. 

Meanwhile, his eyes shift with something that could only be described as _hope._

“Why?” I say in response to the unspoken _yes._

His answer doesn’t matter to me. It’s just a question to buy me time as I come to grips with the forbidden fact that I _want_ him, too.

“You’re _so_ beautiful.” He is leaning uncomfortably forward over the table, hands wedged between his knees and hair waving frantically over his forehead. Even though his mouth is closed, it feels like he is panting. The words fly from his lips as though his thoughts are moving too quickly for him to stop them.

He is saying something about how I look when I’m sleeping when I interrupt him. “Jason.” 

He shuts up immediately, pressing his lips together to prevent any noise.

“Jason, I need to use the bathroom.” I tilt my head demurely to see if he understands me.

His face doesn’t change. I get up slowly and straighten my skirt. Then I run my hands down my ass to pretend like I’m straightening wrinkles back there. 

I can tell something starts to register when I see his hands rub incessantly over his thighs.

I take a deep breath before giving him my biggest smile and playing with the hem of my shirt like I want to lift it up.

“Can you meet me?” I put my lip between my teeth, knowing how it makes me look. I let him watch me as my eyes travel down his body. 

I am now so breathtakingly aware of his height, which I had never thought twice about before. His torso and legs fill out his clothes, and he’s fit and lean, strong and young like me. His hands are rubbing ceaselessly at the fabric of his jeans, and his _hands_ are like no one else’s: the way the veins in his hands fill, the way his fingers are thick and long and reaching. 

Were those the hands that held my hips the other night? The lips that explored my neck as I screamed _“No!”_ over and over again?

 _I want them to be. I want them to be_ so _badly._

The longer I look at him, and the longer he looks at me, the more I realize he is hunched uncomfortably over the table because he has a massive boner. “You want me to meet you … in the bathroom?” His voice breaks as he speaks, but it changes absolutely nothing for me. I still want him — even if he _is_ the one who raped me.

 _Maybe_ especially _if he is the one who raped me._

I drag my eyes up to his face as the realization finally hits him. His brown eyes have turned black until they’re as dark as his hair. He looks like someone clobbered him over the head with a baseball bat ... or like he has just finished coming in his pants. 

_Rape me again,_ I whisper in my head.

“Jason.”

“Meghan —”

“I’ll wait for you there.”

I’m _wet,_ and I turn to walk quickly to the bathroom. All I want to do is drag my underwear off and wipe my lubrication off the crotch.

 _Thank god this coffee shop has single occupancy restrooms instead of stalls._ I pull my panties down my legs without further ceremony and set them on the tiny table by the sink. I have just tucked my hair behind my ear and turned to survey the room when the door clicks open and Jason slips in. 

He slides the lock shut almost at the same time as he slides his cock out of his pants. Immediately he starts pulling at himself, his cock thick and dripping.

He starts talking right away. “I’ve done this so many times I could do it in my sleep,” he tells me as he strokes. His eyes never leave my face as his hand moves up and down, over and over. “Watching you change, watching you get out of the shower … god, I always jerk off to that.” His hand moves so quickly that it blurs. 

He is talking so much faster than he’d been talking when we were at the table, but I hardly register a single word he’s saying. My hands are clenched in fists, and I’m anchored by the sink. It feels like there’s not enough air in the room.

“What?” He notices my concerned face and looks down at himself, hand still pumping. “What is it? _God,_ you smell so good.”

“Jason, I … I’ve never ...”

He doesn’t stop jerking, but his mouth draws tighter and his eyes burn as he stares. “Never?”

“I’ve never had sex … with you.” 

_Or_ was _it you? Were you my first?_

“I know,” he says animatedly. “I just — I never — oh, god. You’re so beautiful.” He groans, and it echoes off the tile on the walls. He’s still four feet away from me, getting himself off like a madman. 

We haven’t touched beyond the first day we met at this same coffee shop so he could start setting up my website. 

When we sat in front of my laptop, our shoulders were close enough to touch, but other than that, I had only touched his hand to shake it. I shudder when I realize he has probably touched every part of me with his mind — _seen_ it all first on his screen, and then imagined touching me with his hand on himself. 

Yet I can’t bring myself to be disgusted by him: all I can do is _stare_ at him, and admit to myself what he looks like.

His jacket stretches across his chest because his shoulders are broad. 

His jeans don’t fall fully down his legs because his thighs are thick, muscular, and wide. 

The muscles in his face alternately slacken and tighten, veins in his neck rippling as his hand moves at a frightening pace, and into my mind pops the most bizarre thought I could have toward this man who might have been my rapist: 

_Let me take care of you._

_Let me give it to you this time instead of you taking it from me._

I cross the room till my palm rests on top of his hand on himself. He completely freezes in surprise, and I take the opportunity to replace his hand with mine.

His cock is so long, and much darker than I expected. I can’t believe this is the first man I’ve ever seen … because the only cock that’s already been in me was one I hadn’t seen.

My strokes are slower than his, and I try to set a rhythm, but he keeps throwing his head back and jerking his hips into my hand to push into me more quickly. So I cautiously walk him back until he’s pushed against the door, and then we settle into something that feels more vaguely like it’s _perfect_. 

“Holy _shit,_ that’s good, Meghan, that’s — _fuck_ — fucking perfect, I ... I’m gonna come just like this,” he gasps. “But I have a condom, so I can come inside you after this, okay?” He looks at me earnestly, without any shame to speak of.

His cock is so hard that it’s poking my stomach, but it’s dry under my hand, so I look at him shyly before running back to the table. I grab my panties and slide my fingers over the still-damp lubrication there before dropping them on the floor and putting my newly wettened palm back onto him. 

His eyes get so huge that they bug out of his head. 

_His eyes are so beautiful: light brown, hazel, gold … and black._

“Is that —” he starts, and I have barely begun to nod when his eyes squeeze shut and I feel a warm liquid under my fingers. He’s spurting into my palm: thick, warm milkiness that fills my hand and drips onto the floor. 

My gut leaps straight into my throat when I realize that _that_ is what’s going inside me — that _that_ is what has _been_ inside me … and I want more. 

I want _more_ of Jason’s cum.

I look back up at him — tall, broad, wide and long — and he’s looking down at me with his mouth open and with narrowed eyes, neck twisted at a difficult angle. His hips jerk toward me again, and another trickle slides through my fingers.

His voice is rough and hoarse and wrecked, but it’s still deep in his chest, cutting under my skirt like fingers dipped in oil: “Were you wet for me? When we were sitting down?”

Again, I am barely nodding before his cock throbs and more wetness slides down my arm. His torso is completely limp against the door and he is staring serenely down at me like he can see right _through_ me — as though I’m not really there, and he sees me as someone I’m not. 

The thought makes me afraid, and I stand on my tiptoes to put my lips on his jaw. I can feel the bone with my teeth as I whisper, “I’m here, Jason. I’m right _here.”_

Then, because it’s the one sexual thing I actually know how to do, I kiss him. 

Still on my toes, forearms propped on his pecs, I lean my hips out so his dick can drop between us, and I push my tongue into his lips the way a stranger pushed his penis into me.

I would feel like I was violating him, except his hands — huge hands, with terrible, meaty fingers — wrap around my back and pull me closer and _further_ into him. The cum cooling on his shirt still manages to smear wetness on my shirt, and my imagination feeds me a fantasy of him laid out on the table in my apartment, a laptop that I lied about needing fixing long-forgotten beside us. My body is draped over his and our tongues are still in each other’s mouths, but I am the one in control now: I am the one who holds all the cards, who says how things are going to go, and he is _mine,_ and I’m taking from _him —_

“Want you inside of me,” I hear myself say into his mouth. “Want you inside of me again.”

If he knows I’m talking about the rape when I say _again,_ it doesn’t show. Instead, his forehead just bumps against mine as he nods. “Wanna be inside you so bad,” he reassures me breathlessly.

His fingers fumble in his pocket, and I hear the wrinkling foil of a condom. I stop him and swallow before I say, “That’s not how you did it last time.”

HIs brow wrinkles so innocently, but for my part, I don’t understand why he looks confused. What’s so hard for him to understand I want him to fuck me raw, just like he did the first time? 

Because I _have_ to know. _Have_ to feel his cock inside me to know.

I have to know if my rapist was the person I wanted him to have been.

I can physically feel the moment when he realizes what I’m asking for, because a look of near-disgust passes over his face before he twists and wrenches me until my hands are on the door. I am bent into a right angle, pushed against the wall, when suddenly the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to see his face _again_ makes me panic. 

“Jason!” It surprises me that I’m screaming. “Jason, _please!”_

“I know, baby. I’m gonna give it to you — _fuck —_ gonna give it to you _now_ —”

“No, Jason! I don’t want it like this again.”

Again, he doesn’t say anything — just seems to take it all in stride. I am still fully clothed as his hands rest protectively on my hips. He looks around wildly, searching for a place to put me. 

“I can sit on the toilet? Lift you up and down ...”

I peel off him and walk forward to the sink before I put my hands on the rim and stick my ass out. I stare at myself in the mirror, examining the lines of my face with merciless disdain.

 _Beautiful,_ I had heard, ever since I was a little girl. 

_She’s going to grow up to be so pretty._

_You have your mother’s hair._

_You have your father’s nose._

I look at the long brown hair that I had brushed that morning — the clear skin and flawless profile that has been praised by friends and strangers alike. I know my body is fit, know I have curves in all the right places: know I am the perfect New York starlet, poised to bud into fame in a city far from home … and yet, here I am, presenting myself like a cow to get fucked from behind by a man I barely know, a man who might have even been my rapist.

I look straight into my own eyes, willing myself to acknowledge what I am doing and _who I am now._

Meghan, who wants it hard and fast and rough.

Meghan, who wants in public from attractive men she doesn’t know.

Suddenly, I feel air on my ass as my skirt is lifted up, and then another pair of eyes rises over my shoulder in the reflection. 

Still looking in the mirror, I raise my eyes just slightly to see … Jason. 

Below the sweep of his dark hair are the eyes that I’ve seen look focused, intelligent, intense, and unashamed. Yet in all of the ways I had seen him look at me, I’ve only ever seen him look at me with the eyes of someone who cared about me.

And so it is that with a simple question, he ruins me.

“Is this okay for you, baby?”

And the truth _— or is it a lie? —_ that I tell myself as I am spread open in the bathroom is that Jason cares about me too much to have done what I thought he did.

He would help me as a friend, he would stalk me and obsess over me as a lover, but he would never take me and then throw me away like a rapist. 

“Jason …” My voice is hoarse with tears, and I can no longer look into my own eyes in the mirror. 

“Jason, someone raped me.” 

The confession has me leaning over the sink and letting my tears fall down the drain, hair streaming over my face. My underwear is on the ground in a public bathroom and the dick of my stalker is hard between my thighs. 

I have a rapist, and I have a stalker, and I want them to be the same person, but they’re not. And so I am crying, fast tears of confusion and grief.

“What are you talking about?” He sounds incredulous. 

“I know it wasn’t you.” My whole body immediately tightens at the desperate way his eyes scan the air in front of him. It’s as though he is reading word-for-word an invisible description of what happened to me. His mind is putting the pieces together as he thinks, and it is _terrifying._

“Someone raped you?” His voice is quiet, forceful. “And you thought … you thought it was _me?”_

I direct my gaze to the bottom of the sink and nod, squeezing my eyes shut.

 _How could I do this to Jason? How could I have_ ever _thought it would have been him?_

When I can finally open my eyes again, his jaw is clenched tight. His eyes are dripping with tears and with fury. I sense a rolling anger in the distance of his mind, and I subconsciously brace myself on the white bowl of the sink as though he’s about to strike and I am the target.

“Meghan.” My eyes are glued to his face over my shoulder in the mirror. “Where was it? Where were you —” he swallows, “— where were you raped?” 

“It was one of the performances of a show I’m in. You wouldn’t know it.”

“I’ve been to every single one of your shows.” At the reminder of his obsession, my heart catches in my mouth. He plows on. “Which night was it?” 

“Thursday. The Thursday evening show.”

Suddenly his hands come down above mine on the sink. His chest is against my back, and I can barely breathe for the weight and heat of him. When he speaks, each of his words press through my whole body, too.

“I took video.” His voice is hollow. “I saw the whole thing. I thought ... I thought you were just acting.”

“Jason —”

Whatever I was going to say is interrupted when he shoves his forehead into the curve of my neck.

His head pushes my neck and his sternum pushes my body, till I am pressed up against the sink, mouth open in surprise. I can feel his groin pressing against the top of my ass, and then he quickly pulls back, only to lean into me again.

Over and over, he rocks me forward and back. He’s quietly, frustratedly whimpering into my hair, and as he hides his face in my neck and hair, I realize he is upset … but not at me.

He is upset with _himself_ for not protecting me. 

For _failing_ me, and failing himself.

Armed with that knowledge, my powerlessness subsides. 

“Jason …” I start — and then the door bangs.

“Hello?” A man’s voice from outside, urgent and loud. “Meghan, are you okay?” The voice sounds familiar ... and then I remember the detectives were waiting for me.

One of my hands goes to the mic under my clothes. The other still grips at the sink like a lifeline.

I call, in a voice much stronger than I feel, “Yes, I’m in here! We’ll — _I’ll_ be out soon!”

No response.

“You set me up?” Jason asks loudly. I lock eyes with him in the reflection. He looks outraged and excited all at the same time.

He presses. “Is someone watching us?”

Then, his voice _purrs_ when he asks me, “Is someone _listening?”_

Something clicks for me.

When I nod slowly, he buries his head into my hair. “You set me up,” I hear him sigh again. He breathes against my neck for long seconds before pulling his face out and looking me dead in the eye. 

“I didn’t rape you,” he says decidedly into the mirror. “I didn’t rape you, and I don’t know who did.”

“I know,” I tell him wearily. I feel as though I am speaking for an audience, now that I’ve remembered the detectives are listening. “I know it wasn’t you.” All of a sudden, I am exhausted.

But then he tilts his head forward and brings his lips to my ear, and immediately I am awake, his lips wiring energy straight through my veins. 

“But it can be me now if you want it to be.”

His dick pulses, ravenous and jutting against my ass. His hands wrap all the way around my waist and his chin rests on top of my head when I finally break down and beg. 

“Jason, _please,_ make it you instead. I want it to be you — _now,_ _please —”_

I feel his hand searching behind my back to grab his cock and guide it in. I lift my chin so I can look him in the eyes as he takes me — not like last time, when I didn’t have a say.

He’s not looking at me as he works to maneuver himself in, but he’s still talking incessantly, words that strike my consciousness like the flat side of a blade. 

“It’s me now, babe. It’s gonna be me _right now.”_

His head is fat and round and slippery at my slit. I realize I’m waiting for him to force it in, but he doesn’t: just holds himself there at my edge, waiting.

He is actually shaking with the effort of keeping himself still, and his voice wavers near tears between his heaving breaths. “I can’t believe I didn’t protect you … can’t believe I let that happen to you ...”

I’m crying, too. All of this is already so different from the way a man first entered me.

“I want them to hear you talking about how I take care of you.” His eyes are bright black when I look at him. “Will you do that for me, Meghan? Prove to them that I can fix this?” 

I am mesmerized by the sound of him talking about his obsession with me. Something’s wrong with him, and I know now that something is wrong with him, but he’s done more for me than anyone else has, even these detectives, and he’s always been watching me because he wants to _protect_ me.

If Jason had been the one raping me, he would have made sure I wanted it.

 _Maybe something is wrong with_ me, _too._

“Yes, Jason. I’ll tell them.” He’s looking straight in my eyes when I see his hips twitch, and with an arch of my back and us breathing as one, the two of us glide his cock straight into me.

His eyebrows are knit, his lips pursed in concentration as we stare at each other’s reflections, neither daring to breathe. Then he shifts his hips by just the tiniest fraction, and my lips part with an indelicate groan. 

I risk a glance at my own face, and I look exactly like a whore.

My hair half-covers my face, falling over my cheeks and into the sink. My torso is bent too far forward; my head twisted back so I can look in the mirror. My mouth is wide open, neck thrown up like all I want in life is to impale myself on him and have his cock spear my core.

His eyes meet mine again as he keeps twitching deeper into me. He gives a determined grunt and then moves his hands from my waist to settle them on the porcelain bowl of the sink over mine. 

“Yes, yes, _yes, yes —”_

We both chant the same word over each other: the word I never had a chance to say.

“Yes, Jason, _yes —”_

 _“Oh,_ yes — _fuck_ yes,” he chokes into my ear. His voice is raspy and strangled and scraping for air. “Can you make yourself come? Never mind, I can do it.” And as he circles my clit with his finger, he tells me the most frightening things.

“I know what you like, Meghan. I know _exactly_ how to give it to you.”

“It should have been me. I’m the one who loves you.”

“I deserve to have you, baby. I know everything about you.”

And he really does.

He knows how to tease my folds as they’re spread wide open around his dick, knows how to angle his finger to catch the side of my nub that gets me gasping. His finger is so calloused and tender at the same time — so big that the pad covers my whole clit — and I am so hungry for him that I’m blind with desire. Mere seconds after he has started rubbing me do I feel myself clenching around his cock inside me.

My mouth opens in a silent scream as I look at him, paralyzed. When he sees my face as I come, his breath catches in his throat.

Then his dick throbs _thick_ within me and I feel his hips lose all rhythm and control. I grab his bicep with my hand as he starts to come, using his body to bend me mightily over the sink. 

_“Huhhhh,_ that’s _it._ I’m so good to you, Meghan. You’re so _fuckin’_ good —”

I had wanted this to be different ... and it was. I had wanted this to be about me ... and it was. So I told Jason so — told him how he had fixed for me the broken act of being _taken._

“Jason, I came,” I reassure him, exultant. “You made me come so, _so_ hard.”

His whole body goes rigid again as he shoots load after load, pressing me into the mirror.

“You made me come, and no one else has done that.”

When I look at him in the mirror, his eyes are shut tight, and he looks _rapturous,_ like my words are transporting him to a place he’s only been in dreams.

“No one will ever make me come like you do, Jason.” I feed him with visions like he is my angel, come to rescue me from this dark, dirty world that takes away my consent. 

I ignore the fact that people have been listening to us have sex, ignore the fact that my sex life has never taken place when I am alone: first Jason watching me when I get myself off in my room, then a stranger raping me in front of a packed audience, and now strangers listening in as I have consensual sex for the first time with someone I barely know.

I especially ignore the fact Jason and I are almost strangers as I twist in his arms and lift my hands around his neck. I bring my lips up to his and ignore the fact that his cum is dripping down my thighs and we didn’t use a condom. 

When we walk out of the coffee shop, his hand is wrapped around mine, and I don’t dare look toward the van I know the detectives are stationed in — don’t dare look anywhere else except the black hood of Jason’s sweater as he strides. 

As we walk, I notice that he keeps his left hand in the pocket of his hoodie where I had stuffed my panties when I thought he wasn’t looking. He keeps glancing back at me to make sure I am still there, as though even when I am physically with him, he can’t stop watching me from afar.

* * *

All these memories are the memories I revisit as I lay in bed, staring at the walls that my face is plastered all over and the computer screen where his hidden camera shows a live feed of my empty living room. In the place where I am, his arm is around my naked body, and my back is pressed to his bare chest. My ass pushes into him and he’s wrapped half a blanket around me, his chin and full lips thrusting over my shoulder as he sleeps.

“I can keep you safe here,” he told me very seriously before shutting the door of his room behind him and sliding both hands onto my hips. “I can keep you so, so safe.”

That was the last thing I thought before finally drifting off to sleep: he wasn’t my stalker. He wasn’t my rapist.

He was my protector.

**Author's Note:**

> Moodboard by [Ari](https://twitter.com/reylocaltrash)
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/flybluejay_) 🖤


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